Okay, pop that tape in the VCR, maybe give the tracking a little nudge, because we're diving into a true slice of early 80s quirk: Joel Schumacher’s The Incredible Shrinking Woman (1981). Forget gritty survival for a moment; this isn't the existential dread of its 1957 namesake (The Incredible Shrinking Man). No, this is a vibrant, often bizarre, pastel-hued satire courtesy of the brilliant minds of writer Jane Wagner and the incomparable Lily Tomlin. Finding this gem on the shelf at the local video store back in the day felt like uncovering a secret, slightly weird corner of comedy.
Suburban Nightmare or Consumerist Comedy?
The premise alone is pure Reagan-era absurdity: Pat Kramer (Lily Tomlin), a cheerful, slightly overwhelmed housewife and mother, starts inexplicably shrinking after exposure to a potent cocktail of household chemicals, primarily a new perfume called "Galaxy Glue." It’s a wonderfully direct jab at the burgeoning consumer culture and the mysterious, potentially harmful products filling suburban homes. Wagner, Tomlin's long-time creative partner, tailored the script specifically for her, transforming Richard Matheson's sci-fi horror concept into a vehicle for sharp social commentary wrapped in broad comedy. I distinctly remember watching this on a flickering CRT, thinking the sheer weirdness of shrinking because of hairspray and cleaning fluids was hilariously profound.
Tomlin Times Three (and Grodin's Glorious Grump)
Lily Tomlin is, naturally, the heart of the film. She doesn’t just play Pat; she also reprises her famous stage character, the perpetually nosy neighbor Judith Beasley, and provides the voice of Ernestine the telephone operator (another of her iconic characters making a brief vocal cameo). It’s a showcase for her incredible versatility. As Pat, she navigates the escalating absurdity with a blend of bewilderment and resilience that keeps the film grounded, even when she's living in a dollhouse.
Opposite her is the master of comedic suffering, Charles Grodin, as her advertising executive husband, Vance. Grodin’s deadpan reactions to his wife’s increasingly tiny predicament are comedic gold. He’s not cruel, just… exasperatedly practical in the face of the impossible, which somehow makes the situation even funnier. Their dynamic feels strangely real amidst the fantasy. And let's not forget Ned Beatty chewing the scenery (almost literally, considering the oversized props) as the head of the conglomerate exploiting Pat's condition. He leans into the corporate villainy with gusto.
Behold! The Majesty of Giant Props!
Now, let's talk about what makes this feel so wonderfully of its time: the practical effects. In an era before seamless CGI could resize actors with a click, The Incredible Shrinking Woman relied almost entirely on good old-fashioned movie magic. We're talking massive, oversized sets and props. Giant phones, colossal cereal boxes, a truly terrifying garbage disposal unit – they built it all! Remember how mind-blowing those forced perspective shots looked back then? Seeing Lily Tomlin interact with a 'giant' coffee cup or navigate enormous furniture had a tangible quality, a physical presence that modern digital effects often lack.
Sure, sometimes you can see the seams a little – a matte line here, a slightly off-scale prop there – but that’s part of the charm, isn't it? It speaks to the ingenuity and sheer effort involved. Director Joel Schumacher, years before he gave us the neon-drenched Gotham of Batman Forever (1995) or the stylish vamps of The Lost Boys (1987), directs with a bright, almost poppy sensibility that matches the film's satirical surface, even if the tone sometimes wobbles between outright farce and sharper commentary. It’s fascinating to see his early work, already showing a strong visual sense, albeit in a very different context. Fun fact: John Landis (An American Werewolf in London, 1981) was originally set to direct but departed the project, paving the way for Schumacher.
A Cult Curiosity Survives the TV Dinner Age
Upon release, The Incredible Shrinking Woman wasn't exactly a blockbuster. It pulled in around $20 million at the box office, a respectable sum but not a runaway hit, and critical reviews were decidedly mixed. Some found the satire scattershot, others perhaps expected something closer to the original source material. However, like so many unique films of the era, it found a dedicated second life on cable television and, crucially, on home video. Renting this tape became a rite of passage for fans of quirky comedy and Lily Tomlin. It’s the kind of movie that might have been playing on a Sunday afternoon movie showcase, forever etching its bizarre imagery onto your brain.
The film’s swipes at corporate greed, media sensationalism, and the hidden dangers of domesticity still land today, perhaps even more sharply in our hyper-consumerist world. It’s a strange brew, undeniably flawed in places, but its ambition, Tomlin’s triple-threat performance, and those wonderfully clunky practical effects make it a truly memorable piece of 80s cinema.
Rating: 7/10
Justification: While the tone can be uneven and the pacing occasionally lags, The Incredible Shrinking Woman earns points for its bold satirical premise, Lily Tomlin's brilliant central performance(s), Charles Grodin's perfect deadpan support, and its genuinely impressive commitment to large-scale practical effects. It's a unique, funny, and sneakily smart comedy that captures a specific early 80s anxiety with charm and imagination.
Final Thought: It’s a potent reminder that sometimes the biggest statements come in the smallest packages, especially when delivered via giant foam-rubber props and a healthy dose of 80s absurdity – pure VHS Heaven.